The Case of the Nob and the Bachelor
by wordswhatareinmybrain
Summary: '"For God's sake, not this again! I am getting married, Sherlock, and you need to get used to the idea!"' John's exhausted, what with dealing with cases and his upcoming wedding, but Sherlock just keeps setting things on fire. Then a new case makes them both reevaluate the situation. A modern re-working of 'The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.


**AN: Hello! How are you all? This is a bit different from anything I've ever tried before, so we'll see how it goes, so please feel free to let me know what you think. It's T for language and possible tongue action later on. Laterz.**

"John."

_Oh, God, no._ The call came from the kitchen. The kitchen where Sherlock was currently supposed to be engrossed in an experiment. John, exhausted from the past week – they had been tracking down a gang of drug dealers, which had involved an all-night stakeout, and had collapsed onto the bed fully clothed early that morning and hadn't moved since – pretended not to hear. He wasn't getting out of bed – his nice, warm, comfortable bed – to pander to the whims of a five year old stuck in a maniac's body.

The call came again, a little louder and more insistent now.

"John!"

He squeezed his eyes shut, praying that, just this once, Sherlock would let it lie and let him sleep.

"JOHN!"

"What?!" John didn't open his eyes. He was damned if he was going to move.

"Come in here."

"No," he replied, shortly.

There was a pause.

"I really think you _should_ come in here."

John ignored him. He was not getting out of bed for Sherlock just to show him some rotting fingers or ask him to pass him his phone. Nope. No way. Under absolutely no circumstances, no exceptions, no-

"I spilt sdfghjkl;  over the desk and now the kitchen's on fire."

"Still not coming down, Sherlock."

"No, the kitchen really is on fire."

John's eyes flew open and for a moment was frozen, staring at the ceiling. He had to be joking. He had to be. _Damn it_, he thought, heaving himself out of bed, and then practically throwing himself down the stairs.

"Oh, my-"

The bench in the kitchen was ablaze, flames licking up the cupboards and curtains, smoke billowing from them. Surveying the furore with an expression akin to distaste was Sherlock, his goggles still on and shirt sleeves rolled up. His face and clothing was blackened.

"And you didn't think to _do_ anything?!" John cried angrily as he grabbed Sherlock by the arm and pulled him out of the flat. "Why do I have to do everything myself, you _child_?! You absolute _cock_ of a child!"

"That doesn't make any sens-"

"One more word from you and so help me I will throw you right back in there." John was so angry he could barely speak, slamming all the doors behind them to prevent the spread of the flames. "Go down-_fucking_-stairs and wait on the street. I'll phone the fire brigade. _Now, _Sherlock!"

oOo

John was still shouting when the fire engines arrived ten minutes later, his voice growing hoarse. They were outside on the pavement, neither with a coat, John having forced them both out of the flat. He didn't want to risk inhaling any fumes – god knows what else Sherlock had been keeping up there that had been burnt. They were lucky that Mrs Hudson was away at her sister's for the weekend and not due back until later today – all the same, John wasn't exactly looking forward to her return. They weren't ideal lodgers at the best of times, and this could very well be the last straw.

For the whole time John had been shouting at him, Sherlock had stood there sullenly, his arms folded across his chest, and scowled at the floor. He had removed his goggles, but this only added to his air of eccentricity – his entire face was blackened apart from the patch his goggles had been, giving a sort of visor effect. The customers and staff of Speedy's had all had to come out onto the pavement too, and a little group had formed, watching the spectacle; this meant they were all more focused on the fire-fighters than on the argument, although one or two had given Sherlock strange looks.

"Are you even listening to me?!"

The firemen pushed past into the house. Abstractedly, John considered the fit Mrs Hudson would throw when she saw the state of her floors after they'd tramped all over it with their great boots. Then he realised that, in the scheme of things, whether the floor got a bit muddy was slightly less important than the state of the rest of their flat.

"Why would I _not_ listen to you?" Sherlock replied drily, speaking for the first time. "You utter naught but pearls of wisdom..."

John's temper flared back up again. "You are such a _child_."

"I'd have thought you'd better get used to dealing with children, John, what with your imminent nuptials. Soon you'll be pumping out sprogs by the bucket load."

John stared at him in outraged disbelief. "For God's _sake_, not this _again_! I am getting _married_, Sherlock, and you need to get used to the idea! It's been six months since I got engaged, what the hell is your problem? Why can't you understand that Mary and I are _getting married_?" He paused. "I love her, Sherlock, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I can't spend it clearing up every tiny little mess you make." He paused again, his anger still there but fading slightly. Sherlock kept refusing to be his best man; god knows now wasn't the right time to ask again. John still wanted to throttle him. But that didn't mean the constant rejections didn't still hurt. He shook his head wearily, suddenly drained. "Whatever, Sherlock. I'll be gone soon enough. Then you can blow up whatever the hell you want. Yourself included, for all I care." He turned and walked away.

"John?" Sherlock called after him. "John, where are you going?"

John didn't turn round. "Away from you."

Sherlock watched his retreating figure go until John rounded a corner. He stayed there amongst the wreckage for quite some time, thinking. He irritably waved off anyone who tried to talk to him. It was dark by the time a taxi drew up beside him and a figure got out.

"Sherlock? What the bloody hell have you done to my flat now?"

Smirking a little – Mrs Hudson would be distraction enough – Sherlock turned to face his landlady's wrath.

oOo

Luckily, the damage was contained to just the kitchen and a bit of the living room, John having had the foresight to shut the doors, and so the two could move back in relatively soon after. The kitchen was completely ruined though, and so they had to put up with builders at all hour of the day. Sherlock, of course, bore this with particularly bad grace – something which irritated John to no end (more so than usual), seeing as how it had been Sherlock's fault in the first place. Soon, however, they were back to work. Everything was almost as it had been before the fire, but John's approaching marriage lurked below the surface, constantly threatening to rear its ugly head and spark more conflict between the pair.

The two were eating breakfast in Mrs Hudson's flat when Sherlock's phone went off – she'd taken pity on them and invited them in (although John's portion of scrambled egg was considerably larger than Sherlock's, and his toast wasn't burnt). He glanced at it.

"Lestrade's out of his depth, as usual. Wants our help with a case."

John looked up at him over his paper, swallowing a mouthful. "Any details?"

"Not many. All he says is that it is in connection with the St Simon marriage scandal and that Lord St Simon is on his way here to speak with us." He rose from his seat. "I firmly expect it to be predictable and dull, but we may as well humour him. Come along, John." He swept from the room, dressing gown billowing out behind him.

John shovelled the rest of his egg into his mouth before standing and smiling a little ruefully. "Thanks for breakfast, Mrs H."

"That's alright, dear. Now go on after him before he sets something else on fire."

John smiled at her again then left the room after Sherlock, taking the stairs two at a time. He entered the flat.

"Do you know anything about this St Simon guy then?"

By way of a response, Sherlock flung a magazine at him. John caught it and flipped it over to the front page. It was one of those trashy women's weeklies. John wrinkled his nose, both in distaste and confusion. Normally he wouldn't touch one of those things with a barge pole. "... Why are you giving me this?" He flipped open to a random page and his eyebrows rocketed up into his hair. "Are you saying I need to learn 'how to please my man'?" He smirked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched a little. "Page six, John."

John turned the pages accordingly. A picture of a harassed looking toff filled the page. Brash, violently coloured letters screamed 'ST. CLAIR NOT SO SAINTLY?'

"This is our client?"

Sherlock shot him a scathing look, as if to say 'Really? You're that dense?'

"Why do you even _read_ this rubbish anyway?"

"All of life can be found in the personal columns of women's magazines."

"Right. So, not looking for sex tips then."


End file.
